


a delicate flame beneath the skin

by theantepenultimateriddle



Category: Wolf 359 (Radio)
Genre: F/F, and they're supposed to duel to the death, i know i end tons of fics with them falling asleep but i'm tired let me project in peace, it's where one of them becomes a demon and the other is an angel, this is that writing prompt thing, this time lovelace is the angel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-11
Updated: 2018-03-11
Packaged: 2019-03-29 17:04:47
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,067
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13931457
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theantepenultimateriddle/pseuds/theantepenultimateriddle
Summary: Death is an evil.That is what the gods think.Or they would die.





	a delicate flame beneath the skin

Lovelace is asleep next to you in your bed, and you watch her, twisting your hands between each other as she tosses and turns. You swallow hard, squeezing your eyes shut for just a moment, and plead with the universe. You’re not much for praying, but you do, sometimes. Not to anyone, it’s far too late for that. Just sending thoughts into the void.

You only ever do it for her.

_ Please let her dream well tonight. God knows I won’t. Let Lovelace rest. Let her sleep. She needs it. _

Lovelace, under the covers, whimpers, and you open your eyes again and reach out to her, smoothing hair back from her forehead. Her skin is hot to the touch, almost burning up, and her hair is damp with sweat. She opens her eyes for a moment. “Minkowski?” Her voice is quiet and hoarse, and your heart hurts. She deserves more than this. She deserves more than whatever is happening to you both. 

“I’m here,” you whisper, touching her gently. “I’m here, Lovelace, I’m not going anywhere.” She blinks, then reached up and touches your forehead, rubbing her fingers over the growing nubs of bone above your eyes. You close your eyes and lean into her touch, and she puts her other hand on your cheek. Her hands are so warm against you, or maybe your body is just that cold. Since the change started happening you’ve always been cold, colder than anyone should reasonably be. Cold like ice. Cold like the grave. It scares you more than anything else about the changes, more than the horns, more than how your newly-sharpened teeth cut the inside of your mouth and more than when that happens you bleed black. 

You feel like you’re dying. 

Lovelace who is looking at you now with eyes that have been slowly turning from dark brown to something shifting and opalescent for the past week, Lovelace with her restless sleep and holes cut into the back of her shirts to accommodate her growing white-feathered wings, Lovelace who is  _ warm, _ is the only person who makes you feel alive. This is why you sleep in the same bed now, because you need her warmth to feel like you’re breathing and she needs your cold to stop feeling like she’s burning alive. Equilibrium. You wish it was more, but it’s not and it won’t be. How can it be? You’re destined to fight with her, to the death. 

You couldn’t say what makes you do it, but you lean in and kiss her, pressing your mouth to hers. She gasps, a tiny sound under your lips, and then reaches around and pulls you closer. Her touch burns into the heart of you, flickers of flame reaching all the way down to the heart you feel sure is freezing. It fills you with yearning, because you want her, you  _ crave  _ her. You want her as close as she can get to you, you want her pressed against you, you want her lips and her tongue and her hands and her, all of her. 

“Minkowski,” she whispers, her mouth moving just barely. “Minkowski, Minkowski, Minkowski.”

The way she says your name is like a prayer.

You pull back, looking at her lying next to you, at her eyes wide and full of something as hot as her blood-- Desire? Pain?-- and for a second you are afraid. Of her, for her, for yourself. You try not to show it, but she sees right through your facade and the expression on her face changes, becoming solemn. She lays a hand on your arm, and you think her touch might burn you, leaving her handprint seared into your flesh. “What’s wrong?” she asks. Then she laughs, a hiccuping and painful noise. “Stupid question. Sorry.”

“No such thing as a stupid question,” you say, even though you know it’s not necessarily true. You sigh and cover her hand with your own. For a second you consider lying to her and saying nothing’s wrong, you’re fine, everything’s fine. Instead the words that come out of your mouth are so truthful that you hate yourself a little for them. “I don’t want to die.”

Lovelace raises an eyebrow, and you see a little bit of the person she is in the daytime come back to her. “Neither do I,” she says. “At least, not for a while. Can that be arranged?”

You sigh. “It’s destined, right? We fight to the death. Or… something.”

Lovelace lets go of you and pushes herself upright, rolling her neck in a motion that speaks of stiff muscles and aching joints. She stares directly at you, her wings twitching in slight involuntary motions behind her. “And? Screw destiny. It’s a dumb concept anyways. We’re people, Minkowski, not toy soldiers or chess pieces or-- or whatever else they want us to be. This--” she gestures to herself and to you, “--is just another thing happening to us. It’s not who we are. We just have to roll with their punches and live the way we choose to, not the way they want us to.” She sets her jaw in a defiant expression. “Personally, I think the people upstairs can find some other sucker to do their dirty work, because I’m not going to.” 

The knot in your chest loosens a little at her words, but only a little. Doubt still coils in your stomach. “You think we have a choice?”

“We always have a choice,” she responds, not hesitating for a second. “They can’t take that away from us, no matter what they say.”

“I love you,” you say, unthinking. Then you blush, a feeling almost warm on your face. “I mean--”

Lovelace cuts you off. “I love you too, Renée.” She gives you a small smile. “That’s another thing they can’t take away.” Then she reaches out to you, taking your hand in hers. Her fingers are long and delicate, her skin soft, and you scoot closer to lean your head on her shoulder. Her voice drops to a whisper, low and soothing. “We’re getting out of this.”

“If it’s the last thing we do,” you say, your voice blurring around the edges with exhaustion. The room starts to fade into darkness as sleep claims you again. The last thing you hear is the echo of her voice, repeating your words.

“If it’s the last thing we do.”

**Author's Note:**

> The summary is actually a fragment from Sappho's poetry, which I thought was fitting. The title is from another one of her poems. I'm just a lesbian, that's all.


End file.
